


Six Times with Jaime

by catherineflowers



Series: Six Times [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Consensual Underage Sex, F/M, Sibling Incest, Twincest, beautiful golden fools
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 10:08:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15022304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catherineflowers/pseuds/catherineflowers
Summary: "He makes her happy. She could be happy, giving him what he wants - being his wife, but being his queen as well.He wants that, she knows. He wants her to rule him."





	Six Times with Jaime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaptainTarthister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainTarthister/gifts).



 

The First

It’s a sin. A grave sin.

Cersei remembers her mother’s voice - the shrill note of panic that touched Joanna’s eyes with a blaze of madness. Cersei had never seen her eyes like that before.

Cersei hadn’t felt shame. She had felt excited. Powerful.

What she and Jaime had been doing was something that their lady mother hadn’t understood, hadn’t known how to deal with.

She feels powerful now, too.

Jaime came back from Crakehall. She hasn’t seen him in half a year, and he’s grown, as she has. Taller, broader, longer haired. Deeper voiced. He’s been squiring too - learning to fight and hunt and ride. He’s broader in the shoulders, broader in the chest. His arms stretch his tunic when he moves them.

He greets her and Tyrion in the courtyard, but he only has eyes for Cersei. Eyes for the front of her gown, the new swell of her breasts, the new curve of her hips. He looks at her as if he’s starving. Cersei is starving too.

Their father hosts a feast for his lords – they aren’t invited. She creeps to Jaime’s chamber late at night, with a candle, dressed in silk. Beneath the gown, her skin’s on fire. Blazing, burning through her, centred between her legs.

She wants him in her. _In_ her, like they used to play as children. Like the dogs and bitches in the yard, the mares and stallions in the fields. _In_ her.

She puts the candle at his bedside. He lays sleeping, one arm above his head. The candlelight falls across his golden skin, across the new golden hair grown on his chest. Her mouth waters.

“Jaime,” she whispers.

“Cersei,” he says, still sleeping. So much longing, like he’s talking to a dream.

She pulls the ties on her gown, and it falls to the floor at her feet. The whisper of the falling silk sends a shudder of pleasure through her body. A trickle of wet down her thigh.

“Jaime,” she says again.

He opens his eyes. Blinks a few times. Trying to decide if she’s really there, she thinks. “Cersei.”

“I need to share your bed.”

He sits up, hair falling into his eyes – golden, glorious. Eyes burning her body. He holds back the covers.

He too is naked - his cock juts upward from the new thick patch of curls between his legs. Hard and red and ready already. He wants to be _in_ her too.

She sits on top of him, knees either side of his hips. One hand on his shoulder, the other feeling between her legs for the hole she needs to take him into. Her _cunt_.

She finds it easily – it’s open and ready for him. Slick and warm and wet. She takes hold of him with her hand covered in her juices and guides him, pushes him deep inside. His eyes close. Hers stay open.

She wants to see this, wants to see her power. _This_ is where it’s been promised to her, this simple act of taking a man inside her cunt. This, she has been told, is where she has the most control she will ever have in this world.

But this is Jaime. Her Jaime. Her secret and her love. Her twin, her reflection. And he’s _in_ her. _In_ her. _In_ her. She’s never felt so whole.

These things … all these things they did as children now make sense. When he suckles at her nipples, when he rubs between her legs. When he makes that feeling – ah that _feeling_ – build and build and build.

They gasp in unison, just breaths at first, but then cries too, cries they try to stifle. It feels so good. So _good_. She feels so full! She feels complete.

He’s made her come before, of course. And she him, a myriad of times, back when rubbing each other’s genitals was just a bit of fun they did to help them sleep. But this is different. This come wracks her body, head to toe, in all her bones. Makes her writhe, makes her moan and groan and clasp him tightly to her.

Jaime pulls away. Urgently. Lifts her off him, grasps his cock in his right hand. It jumps and spurts a spurt of white that splashes on her belly, on her cunt. Another follows, and another, and another, decorating her from thighs to teats.

He’s panting, beautiful, glistening with sweat. “That’s my seed,” he whispers. “It comes out – now that I’m a man grown. We must be careful not to make a child.”

Cersei runs her fingers through the streaks of it on her skin, feeling the texture, feeling the consistency. It looks like pearls in the candlelight, smells sharp and rich and sweet. She brings her fingers to her mouth. Licks it, to try the taste.

He grins. “Is it good?”

She offers him her fingers. He accepts.

  
  
The Second

Jaime’s gone to sleep. Exhausted, sideways on the bed. Cock soft, flopped and drying on his thigh. On Cersei’s thighs, on her belly, on her face – her brother’s seed. 

Outside, the noise and carousing of the city streets is so much louder here. Fighting, singing, the clack of drinking horn on drinking horn. The sounds of fucking from the other rooms of the inn – they disgust and arouse Cersei in equal measure. She knows this evening that their noises have been heard by all as well.

He’s smiling in his sleep – she has him. Almost has him. What Rock compares to this? What lands, what titles? Jaime cares not for the adoration of Lords and Ladies. Only hers. Only hers.

But this is not for him. This place is Seven Hells – she can’t do it without him. Waiting for a Targaryen to wed her, the humiliation of the rejections, the pity of the other proposals. It’s become her life. She’s can’t do this alone.

She can’t see him with Lysa Tully either, that shrew-faced little hag on the arm of a Lannister? Jaime wedding her, bedding her – no. He’s too beautiful. Too perfect. He deserves a beauty too, an equal. There’s no one more equal to Jaime than Cersei.

If she’s got to hurt him, take from him to have him, then she will. She’s going to rip his life apart, and her father’s too, but Jaime wants it. Jaime’s hers.

He’s hers. She leans over him now, skating fingers up his legs. His hips roll in answer, his cock twitching on his thigh. She breathes on it, watches it grow and harden.

Jaime’s cock is a fascinating thing. Without it, he’d be her. If she had one, then she’d be him. She tongues it, that spot beneath the head that drives him wild. He wakes at once, with a gasp. She looks him in the eyes and takes him in her mouth, full and deep, tongue swirling, lapping at the parts she knows he loves.

The septas taught her to fear cock, that cocks bring pain and shame. But not Jaime’s. Jaime’s is as familiar to her as her own body. As if the Lioness feels shame.

He cradles her face in both his hands while she sucks him, eyes soft and lidded with pleasure, but never leaving her eyes. She has him. She has him.

 

The Third

She’s dressed in white and so is he. His face is dark, though. Angry. Jealous. Right hand twitching for his sword hilt.

“It’s not too late,” he pouts. Childlike and petulant. “There are ships in the harbour. We could run.”

She laughs, the laugh of a happy young girl at a very silly joke.

His face darkens further. “You are _mine_ , Cersei. We swore it when I became a Kingsguard.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snarls. “That stupid oath only protects you, remember? There are no such oaths for women. We are wives. Property, bargaining chips. Did you think father would allow me to remain a maid for always?”

“You’re no maid.”

“I’m maid enough for Robert.”

He grabs her, holds her hard. Doesn’t let her go. “I’ll _kill_ him,” he hisses, right in her face.

She laughs again, derisory this time. “Of course you will. Kingslayer.”

He forces a kiss on her - hard lips, hard teeth, invasive tongue. She tries to push him off. He doesn’t get off. She slaps him. He slaps her back.

They glare at each other, teeth bared, eyes narrowed. Breathing hard. Two lions.

They pounce on each other, coming together in a ferocious battle of hands and mouths and hips. He yanks down the bodice of her wedding gown – hard, so hard she thinks it will tear, but it doesn’t. Both her nipples pop out of the top, flushed pink and pointing hard. He grabs at her. Squeezes. Possesses. “ _Mine_ ,” he says. “Cersei.”

His hot mouth is on one and then the other. Teeth and tongue. Hand up her skirts. Hers in his breeches. Palming his cock, furious and hard.

He sweeps the table of her bride gifts, throws her onto it, on her back. Falls on top of her, lost in the froth of her petticoats, lace and white armour gleaming and glorious in the sunshine.

He pushes inside her, a brutal thrust of want and desperation. The need of it, the need, the _need_ on his face makes Cersei ache, makes her throb, makes her wet. Tonight it will be the King doing this, she thinks. The King thrusting in her, the King kissing her teats, the King making her come.

She arches up beneath him with a roar, legs stiff and straight in the air, toes pointed at the sky. Jaime pulls out and spurts his seed into the folds and pleats and ruffles of her wedding dress, gleaming white on white.

He tucks himself away into his breeches. Relaces them and brushes fitfully at the stains. Adjusts his cloak and swordbelt and tidies his hair in her looking glass. Turns back to her to look upon her.

She lays on the table unmoved, breathing hard, uncovered and spread-eagled before his agonised gaze.

“You are beautiful, my Cersei,” he says in a voice that’s full of tears.

 

The Fourth

There’s only pain.

It fills her to bursting point, with pressure. Pressure. Her body squeezes and she squeezes too, until her face is red, until her legs shake. Head to her chest, hand grasping Jaime’s.

Two breaths, and then another push.

She’s not going to die, she realises with a rush of triumph. The baby’s moving down.

Oh but Gods it hurts. It hurts, it hurts. She sounds like a wounded animal, not at all like a queen.

They promise her it’s just one more push, but it’s three, then four. She curses them all and snarls at them but pushes anyway until then, just as she thinks she will die from the pain, the baby slides from her body in a fat slippery rush of blood and fluid.

The maester holds him up, a perfect boy. Eyes already open, golden haired and gorgeous. He looks like Jaime. So much like Jaime.

Beside her, holding her, Jaime gasps. He sighs. A sigh of love, of longing. His hand leaves hers, twitches as if to reach for the babe.

“No,” she says.

He stiffens. Remembers himself, remembers their situation. He slips out from behind her on the birthing bed, his tunic soaking with her sweat. Goes to pour himself some wine across the room.

She takes the baby. Holds him, marvelling already at the smallness of him, his tiny hands, his tiny feet. Puts his mewling mouth to her breast and lets him suckle her while Jaime watches. Sad eyes over the rim of his goblet.

Stupid eyes. The baby is obviously a Lannister. If Jaime doesn’t stop this moon-eyed foolishness they’ll be heads on spikes before sundown, babe included.

“You may leave now, brother,” she tells him in a tone that brooks no argument. He opens his mouth. Closes it again.

He puts down his wine and goes.

 

The Fifth

Jaime is beautiful to look upon, but he’s not Jaime any more.

He’s come back different. Darker. Maybe lighter, too. Just not Jaime. He’s a stranger wearing Jaime’s skin, and when he touches her she feels repulsed. And when he kisses her she wants to kiss him back but can’t.

She’s not sure what just happened. He took her in the sept, by Joffrey, by Joffrey’s _body_. _Took_ her, and it was more a taking than it has ever been before. Her body didn’t answer his, didn’t feel like the missing part of his. He pushed inside her and he _hurt_ her. He hurt her and he didn’t care.

He didn’t care that Joffrey lay there dead and murdered. Didn’t care that Tyrion had killed him. He wanted Cersei and he took her. Called her hateful.

All the time his metal hand beneath her, scraping the flagstones of the floor, digging hard into her shoulder, gold and cold as Joffrey’s corpse.

She’ll get over it. A flagon of wine, another, another. Nothing matters any more. Her heart is just a hole of hurt, a deep black pit of shit – what’s Jaime?

What’s Jaime? A fiction that she told herself, a dare and a dream. She ripped a kingdom apart for love of him. She’s ripping, ripping still.

 

The Sixth

He comes inside her. Lips soft on her neck, breath warm on her skin cradled in the cradle of her arms and legs.

Brother, sister, lover. In love with her. Still in love with her. Always, Cersei and Jaime. Always.

He trails his lips down the sweat on her neck, between her breasts, over her belly. Puts his mouth between her legs and laps his seed from her cunt. She strokes his short hair, the grey above his ears.

“Make me come with your mouth,” she commands him. He obeys without a word, turning her on top of him so that she can thrust against his face as he licks her. Because he knows she likes that, because he knows it makes her come.

She remembers the first time he did this to her – he’d overheard some stable boys at Casterly Rock laughing and joking about it. He had rushed, flushed, to her bedchamber where she had been sewing with her septa like a lady. He had told her their Lord father wished to see her, had taken her by the hand and led her into the bowels of the Rock, right into the dungeons.

They’d snuck into a cell and locked the door – it had been all but pitch black inside. He’d laid her back onto the stinking straw they used for bedding and ripped her smallclothes off.

It had taken him some time to get the hang of it, but he knew Cersei’s body well, and the feel of him, the _feel_ of his tongue on that sweet little _thing_ between her legs … she had screamed until her throat was raw.

Jaime is the only man who has ever touched her there, the only man who knows her body is capable of pleasure. Every man has been a disappointment thanks to her brother. And she loves him. She truly does.

He makes her happy. She could be happy, giving him what he wants - being his wife, but being his queen as well. He wants that, she knows. He wants her to rule him.

She chokes her pleasure into her feather pillow. He grunts, pleased with himself, and kisses her hair. She brings him close and kisses him and kisses him, hands holding his hand.

They have loved each other all their complicated, twisted lives. Not well, not wisely, not kindly sometimes, but always they have loved.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to everyone who has read and commented on this series, I've really enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> Particular thanks to CaptainTarthister for pushing me into writing this nownownownownow! She's a star.


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